


Sundays in the Park with Sherlock

by dozmuffinxc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 12:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2621165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dozmuffinxc/pseuds/dozmuffinxc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was 14 years old and extremely miserable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sundays in the Park with Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nishinoynah (sherlawkis4jawn)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlawkis4jawn/gifts).



> Prompted by magnificentwatson who said that I "should write something teenlock in sherlock's pov." Ta!

Sherlock Holmes was 14 years old and extremely miserable.

It had been Mummy’s idea to spend the day in Regents Park after an extended walk about the city of London proper. How on Earth she could have imagined that this would be an activity conducive to the tastes of her highly introverted, closeted sons was beyond him – and really, that in itself was miraculous, because nothing was ever “beyond him.” But here he was, huddled in the shade of one of the towering trees that shaded the urban sprawl a mere block away, and he was completely and utterly miserable.

For all Mummy might complain, he had tried to make the best of the day. While being dragged along Shaftesbury Avenue, Sherlock had practiced his skills of deduction on unsuspecting passersby. He had been uniformly disappointed: 4 separate mothers with their screaming children on their way to deposit the little beasts with a nanny so that they could spend the day with their not-so-secret lovers; 3 old ladies on their way to bridge club, one of whom had nicked a box of chocolate biscuits from the nearest Tesco; a convicted felon with love on his mind and gonorrhea between his legs… none of this had been enough to rescue what had turned out to be an abysmal outing. Sherlock suspected that lunch in the park had been less of a plan and more of a chance for Mummy to take a breather from her taciturn sons, and he had taken the earliest opportunity to slip away under the pretense of examining the algal blooms spotting the mouth of the scummy, duck-filled pond.

Which he had done, by the way, and found nothing spectacular there, either. Attempts at reading (a medical text spirited out of Mycroft’s personal collection) had proven disappointing, as well.

Sherlock leaned against the trunk of the tree, unbuttoning his shirt so that just a few inches of pale skin peeped out, and used the momentary quiet and the relative warmth of the day to spirit himself away to his mind palace. At least _there_ he could escape the banal activity and infuriating noise of this godforsaken, germ-infested death trap of a park…

It had been at that very moment that a great _THUD_ had resounded just above his head and he had nearly fallen over into the dirt in surprise. Sherlock’s eyes flew open and immediately began searching for the source of the disturbance. Years of schoolyard harassment had honed his reflexes (already keen thanks to years of children’s baritsu lessons), and he was already on his feet with a thick branch clutched in his fist by the time he realized that his would-be attacker was nothing more than a rather battered-looking football.

“Sorry about that,” a voice called, followed almost immediately by the appearance of a young man a few years older than Sherlock running across the green.

The older boy was wearing a worn pair of trainers, athletic shorts, and a Manchester United jersey that appeared to be at least two sizes too large for even his muscular frame. His sandy hair was tousled from exertion – he was, no doubt, one of the boys Sherlock had observed playing football on the stretch of open lawn when he, Mummy, and Mycroft had arrived at the park, and from the look of his scuffed shoes and the bruises on his kneecaps, he was currently a member of the winning team.

“No,” Sherlock stammered, suddenly very conscious of his neatly pressed school uniform and shiny dress shoes, “it’s… it’s fine.”

“Guess I don’t know my own strength,” the other boy chuckled awkwardly, his eyes giving Sherlock a brief once-over and then regarding him with surprisingly-gentle, compassionate brown eyes. “Didn’t hit you, did I?”

Sherlock shook his head, distressed at his own loss for words.

“What’ve you got there,” the other boy asked, nodding pointedly at the stick clutched in Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock promptly dropped the branch and flushed a violent shade of pink.

“Right, well,” the boy cleared his throat, looking embarrassed and, oddly, understanding.

From just over the ridge, a masculine voice yelled out for “John,” and the other boy glanced over his shoulder before turning back to Sherlock.

“Would you mind,” the boy asked politely, glancing down at Sherlock’s feet.

It took Sherlock a moment to pull his eyes away from the youth’s sun-burnt face to realize that he was looking at the football that had come to rest in the shade of the tree just beside his abandoned book. He picked up the ball, flinching slightly at the grimy film of dirt and grass coating the off-white exterior, and handed it over.

“Thanks,” the sandy-haired youth said, flashing a crooked smile and turning to go.

Sherlock watched him hurry across the green with the heavy weight of disappointment in his gut. He had bent down to pick up his book when he was surprised to hear the other boy’s voice calling back to him from the top of the ridge.

“Hey,” the boy yelled, “next time you might try Netter!”

Sherlock couldn’t help the smile that flitted across his face as the peculiar boy with the outdated trainers and an unexpected knowledge of anatomy texts disappeared from sight.

_Perhaps Sundays in the park weren’t so awful, after all…_


End file.
